Kim Loves Stuff

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But even so, every now and then I would feel a violent stab of loneliness. The very water I drink, the very air I breathe, would feel like long, sharp needles. The pages of a book in my hands would take on the threatening metallic gleam of razor blades. I could hear the roots of loneliness creeping through me when the world was hushed at four o’clock in the morning.

Post reblogged from Pretty bird

pretty-bird:

The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, Haruki Murakami
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  pretty-bird: The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, Haruki Murakami
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